


Janus

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My life can be divided into several periods, one of pre-Jim and one of mid-Jim. I have yet to experience post-Jim, but more and more I think it might be impossible for that to ever happen. He has worked his way into even my very perception of time.</p><p>It advanced in graduating steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Janus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HolmesianDeduction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/gifts).



"How do you feel about affairs?" Jim asks, one morning over cereal. The drain in the bathroom is clogged and I'm shaving in the kitchen sink. I finish dragging the blades over my left cheek and grunt.

"What do you mean?"

Jim makes a face that looks bored, I can see it in the reflection of the range hood. I quickly recover, whisking my blade in the tap. "It depends, I suppose. Circumstances."

Jim hums to himself around his spoon and pops it out of his mouth. "Well?"

I start on the next cheek, gathering my thoughts. "If someone was in a bad spot, like a bad relationship, I don't think I'd mind. No one deserves to be in a relationship that hurts them." I run a hand over my face, feeling for stubble. "But I don't necessarily like it. It's not the nicest thing in the world, knowing somehow you're not good enough for your partner. I don't like cheating."

I nearly expect Jim to laugh but he doesn't answer. He stares off thoughtfully and doesn't bring up the topic any further.

 

***

 

"Oh, no no no. You can't wear that tonight," Jim actually  _chastised_ without looking up from his paper. I can't believe he reads such rot. Tabloids, opinion columns, Jim seems to devour them, all the scandals and going-ons of stars and icons seem to give him some degree of pleasure that most would label unhealthy.

I respond mutely, leaving the 'why not?' unspoken and heavily implied. I could have snapped and told him that I didn't have time for games, but that would have been a damn lie. I don't have time because I run on Jim's time. If Jim waits for me to change clothes a million times before he approves, then no matter what we will never be late. It's an upsetting realization.

"Wear the black suit," he drawls and lazily adds, "I like that one."

I smooth the front of my grey jacket, "what's wrong with this one?"

Jim gives me a cocked eyebrow and looks to the closet.

In ten minutes, I'm in a black suit and red tie.

 

***

 

We leave the flat--small and dingy, we aren't here for long--and steal away into the night. It's cold, not miserable but uncomfortable. I'm not fond of suits, they look nice but they're too much trouble and far too expensive. Expensive, I think, as my foot dips into a puddle and I contemplate the price of my leather loafers. Not that money's a problem for Jim.

"Where are we going?"

"Out."

We walk four blocks over and get into a silver Audi. Rental, it still smells like a dealership and leather. I light a cigarette anyway. "I'm driving." I say blandly. Jim looks at me like I'm half daft, as if I were expecting he would want to drive in the first place. I start the car and Jim gives directions while I smoke cigarette after cigarette. He fiddles with his phone and occassionally looks up, otherwise the car is silent.

"Here we are," he sits up quickly and seems suddenly excited. Something curls in my gut like fear but not quite.

 

***

 

We enter an abandoned warehouse. They're everwhere, this one was probably built in the 30s and was left to rot after the war. The clouds are out and everything is being misted by a chilly drizzle. Moss is soft underfoot as we make our way inside towards a brightly lit room--all of the machinery gone. It's a hollow place, no name and no equipment to even give an indication of its purpose.

Two halogen lamps point directly on two people, a man and a woman. They writhe at our footsounds, gagged and tied to a pair of chairs. The man is in a suit, dressed for an office job, and the woman is in what looks to be a cocktail dress, as if she were snatched from a party. I wonder how long they've been there. Probably hours, but I wouldn't doubt days.

Jim claps his hands together, loud in the emptiness. “So, tell me Seb,” he he looks to me, a devious smile on his face, “do you want to know what they've done?”

His voice makes me nervous suddenly. I never ask him 'why', I never have to. It always hangs there, unspoken but necessary. He rarely answers. “Oh you'll like this one,” he says gleefully, mocking a telephone with one hand. “Hi Jim,” he says in a high-pitched voice, mocking the woman, “my husband is having an affair and I'd wish you'd take care of him?” He switches hands and drops his voice to a husky baritone, “Hello Jim, my wife is having an affair, would you take care of her?”

I visibly stiffen. The 'why' is inaudibly shouted and ignored. “What are you going to do to them?”

Jim hums, knitting his fingers behind his heading and shifting his weight from side to side. “Oh, it's not what I'm going to do to them, it's what you're going to do to them, love.” I remain silent and watch the two, the woman's eyes are wide with fear and the man's are hatefully watching Jim. “I thought they could use a bit of marriage counselling. So you're going to listen to each side of the story and you're going to fix it.”

I swallow. “What do you mean, 'fix it'?”

“They've both paid me for the job. I could kill them both but that wouldn't be fixing the problem would it?” He says that like it's the most saintly thing in the world. “So, do what you do best, baby.” There's something dark in his eyes when he says that and my throat tightens.

 

***

  


“So,” I look up, extending my jaw and stretching my neck to help work the growing lump out, “you want me to choose between them. One or the other.” Jim doesn't bother answering because I know the answer and it wasn't a question. “What makes you think they're even going to tell me the truth? They're willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to kill one another--.” The words die in my mouth at Jim's amusement and the hairs rise on my neck. I hadn't realized how much he knew about me until then.

I ungag them, realizing that I'm just prolonging the inevitable. At once, the woman begins to beg and plead. The man spits on my shoe and Jim hisses like a goose. He's like a spectator watching an intersected pass at a football game. I grit my teeth, “you heard that, didn't you? I'm chosing one of you, so you better give me a goddamn good reason to spare your miserable life.”

We get nowhere. The woman insists that he started cheating first and the man insists that it was her. The story is stereotypical and uninteresting for both—the woman was caught with the poolboy, quite literally, and the man was caught with a young intern. The man is needlessly indignant for his situation and the woman is too shrill. I mash my palms against my eyeballs until I see stars and let out a growl that quickly grows in volume. “Shut. UP.”

The man lets out a sound as if I've made an affront to God and man and continues to rave about his wife's adultery and spending. Before I know it, I've struck him. The back of my hand stings and his face turns a shade of red that isn't just the impact but humiliation. “Now you listen here, you slimy son of a bitch,” I enunciate through my teeth and the woman starts hysterically crying, “you're going to shut the hell up and let this lady tell me about all your dirty secrets.”

At this point, I realize I'm just appeasing the woman. I really no longer care about the man, regardless of if he's right or wrong. I doesn't care that his wife was spending all of his money on a coke addiction or whatever the fuck it was and I definitely doesn't care that his wife has cheated multiple times. He's an asshole and he rubs me the wrong way. My throat tightens and I turn to Jim, scratching the stubble on my cheek. “Where's the gun?”

The woman sobs louder, if at all possible, and the man starts to struggle against his bonds and shout for help. I rub my temples and realize I've left my cigarettes in the car. I can't handle the stress levels. “Shut the fuck up!” I all but shriek at them, nostrils flaring as I look back to Jim. They fall silent almost immediately, silent except for heavy breathing and high-pitched whimpers.

Jim gives me a smile of all teeth and my stomach drops. I turn nauseous. “What do you expect me to do without a gun, Jim?” My breath quickens as Jim lolls his head, smiling wider than ever. “Shit.” The adulterers look to one another, confused.

I look back to them, suddenly indecisive. “I can't do this,” I croak, eyes pleading as I flicker between them and Jim. My mouth is dry. “I can't. I just can't.” Jim cocks his head at that. I'm down to a whisper, “I can't, Jim.”

“Yes, you can,” he tilts his head the other direction, hands in his pockets. “Come on, love. For me? Just this little _tiny_ thing?”

I want to vomit. “I can't. You're asking me to kill one of them with my bare hands, Jim. My bare hands. I can't.” I shake my head for emphasis, backing away slightly. “Give me a gun and I could do it any day. But not this. I've never done this before.”

“Oh,” Jim looks to the ceiling, letting out a huffing laugh, “Oh, Seb, we both know you're lying.”

I close my eyes, practically feeling the sand filling my shoes and hot wind burning my face. I'm sweating in my suit. It's dribbling down my back. “What do I do?” I ask in a low voice, just audible over the whimpering and the scrape of the man's chair over the floor as he struggles. “What should I do, what should I use?”

“There's a lug wrench in the trunk,” Jim responds, slowly, as though he is a hypnotist.

I am unable to hear the shouting that has started and when it cuts off. Jim has gagged them again, tired of their noise.

I leave the factory and return to the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the wrench. It's heavy in my hands, awkward. I return to the scene, my stomach doing a series of flips that put acrobats to shame.

“That's it, love.” Jim coaxes, suddenly appearing behind me to remove my jacket. I am so distant from reality it doesn't seem out of place. I am in Afghanistan again, my hands gripping the lug wrench as though it is my rifle or an extension of my arm. “Now pick one.”

The chair has scooted a fair distance away from his wife and I move to stand directly in front of the him, my decision already made. For some reason it feels better to kill him. More honourable or acceptable. I rest the wrench against his head and he lets out a muffled sound. My eyes slide shut slowly and I just breathe.

_ The sand is hot beneath me and the vegetation is far from living. It pokes into me every time I shift to get more comfortable, keeping my eye on the target through the scope. I've been waiting two hours for this shot. At sunrise, he'll emerge from his house to take a piss, just like every other morning; when he stretches in the doorway I will blow him to kingdom come. It is just about time when I hear a sound, loud in the silence, of a foot crushing the dry underbrush. _

__ I grip the lug wrench hard, my knuckles going white.

_It is a morning patrol. He can't be older than fourteen years. His clothes are dirty but an AK-47 gleams dangerously in his hands. I react with adrenal speed, rising from my position and swinging the butt of my rifle into him._

I strike him with the wrench, swinging it from the side in a mock motion. It connects with his jaw and my eyelids flutter, the illusion threatening to break. I hear a crack of a jaw and it continues.

_The boy reels and I follow him down, unwilling to let my position be given away by a screaming child. Time is still, moving impossibly slow. I strike again, bringing my rifle down like a club against the top of his head._

The lug wrench connects with the man's skull again, this time with the sound of a smashed melon; the shock of the impact makes my elbow lock painfully, Jolting me out of Afghanistan. I stare down at him, wide-eyed as he swoons then seizes suddenly, blood bubbling from his nostrils. My chest heaves and I swing once more, the metal becoming lodged in his head as I stumble away and his eyes roll into his head.

The woman sobs as he dies deafeningly. I sit down in the floor, scooting away from the pooling blood that is beginning to spread. I realize that I didn't roll up my sleeves and that I'm covered in it, from the wrist to the elbow, speckled with it; it's on my face. I let out a shuddering breath and look away, not daring to look at the body, not willing to look at Jim. I start to shake. It is cold.

There are footsteps and then, the factory erupts in gunshots. I flinch at the sound, looking up wild-eyed. The woman slumps in her chair and Jim stands over her. “There we are.” He says, satisfied.

I am speechless. My mouth opens and closes. “Why?” I feel disoriented and as though I am floating along. I gape at him again, unable to make a sentence. He doesn't answer because he doesn't need to answer.

Jim puts the pistol back into his jacket pocket and fetches mine. He drapes it over my shoulders. I can do nothing but stare at him and sweat. He stoops a bit and runs his fingers through my hair as if rewarding me and I lean heavily against his leg.

“Shh, shh,” he hushes, and continues like stroking a spooked horse until I regain my composure. As we retreat to the car, I stumble over my own feet. I feel like I'm going to be sick. He takes the drivers' side and despite it all, I feel a small degree of gratefulness. The drive back to the flat is silent.

 

***

 

He rattles around in my left pocket because my hands aren't capable of handling the keys then walks me to my bedroom. I don't bother to toe off my shoes. My throat is dry but I don't have the will to drink. I fall into the bed heavily, tie bar pressing into my chest, and claw my way up to the pillow to bury my face in it. Jim disappears, I can no longer feel his eyes on my back.

He returns, and I feel a weight deposit itself on my back and realize it's a blanket as he tucks it in around my belly and legs. Then, he presses his lips against the back of my head, just behind my ear and whispers, “good boy.”


End file.
